


The Only Reason

by alexipyretic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexipyretic/pseuds/alexipyretic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the words of a dear friend: "IN THE MIND OF SAM WINCHESTER: The only reason I like you getting hurt: I feel like a good brother when I can fix you up in under four minutes, barely any blood or mess-- and I love the noises I can get out of you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Reason

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first fic I wrote, for any fandom, I believe. I'm not the biggest fan of it anymore, but hey, sentimental value.

A loud crack resounds in the dimly lit room as the rickety wooden door slams shut, and Sam whirls around immediately, his thin lips pursed in frustration as he reassures himself he hasn’t kicked the door clear off its hinges in sheer haste. When the door remains intact, he sighs and turns back around to face Dean, only to find he isn’t standing where Sam had left him a second ago, but sinking down on weak knees to lean against the edge of the bed, his eyes fluttering shut.

 

“Dean!” The exclamation rings clear as he snatches up the first aid kit and barrels towards his brother, a single bead of sweat rolling off the back of his neck to mingle with the blood still flowing steadily from an open wound that doesn’t matter, not really, not when Dean’s like this. Oh, sure, he’d walked from the car to the room himself, in quick, decisive strides, but from the very second the door slams shut he’s free again, free to let go and let the visage unravel, so long as the only eyes that ever view him in this state are Sam’s, sweet Sammy’s, and it’s a damn good thing they got here when they did, ‘cause he didn’t think he could last another minute without passing out cold. How the hell he’d driven back here without losing consciousness was a mystery beyond Sam’s curiosity, and he sighed heavily as he snapped open the box and pulled out the antiseptic, unscrewing the top as he finally let his gaze drop to the face of the man on the floor, bloodied and bruised, but more than that, it’s a face devoid of that hardened expression, the tough demeanor he’d perfected before Sam could walk and talk. It’s the face of a wounded man, in need of aid, in need of fixing, and that’s it, Sam’s gone, and the bandages slip right through his fingers and he doesn’t even notice, no, his hands are clutching at the worn cotton shirt, oh, hell, the shirt’s already ruined—he tears it right off his back, casts it aside, and those same fingers make their way to Dean’s chest, running along the sides briefly before they grip him by the bloodied shoulders, and Sam’s leaning down, crushing their lips together, sealing the kiss like it’s five seconds to midnight. His older brother groans beneath him, and his vividly green eyes flicker open once again, widening as Sam claims his mouth with rough sweeps of tongue, until it’s less of kissing, more of devouring, as he savors the taste he doesn’t love, but he needs, the taste of salt, of leather, of metal and blood, that tangy, bittersweet flavor, the taste of _Dean_ , and it isn’t until words are falling past Dean’s swollen lips that Sam tears himself away, allowing just a moment to let the oxygen back in.

 

“Jesus Christ, Sammy! You always gotta do this before you fix us up?” Dean gripes irritably, and Sam blinks slowly as he drags his lips along Dean’s jaw, distantly aware of the fact he’s somehow managed to curl up right in Dean’s lap, with his arms around the slender man’s waist, and his dirty, chipped fingernails digging into the base of his spine.

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

 

xxxx

 

 

_It used to be the fear. The rash, raw, unadulterated fear in the beginning, the earlier hunts, the wendigo—that terror consumed me, the terror of losing you so soon after regaining you back, it drove me mad. That’s how we started again, isn’t it? That desperate fear, driving every single one of my senses wild as adrenaline made its course through my veins, my body’s slow revelation as it catches up to speed with my mind and slowly grasps the reality that the hunt is over, the peril has passed, you were still breathing. You were still bleeding, yes, but that was just another sign of life, really, seeing that the blood is still pumping, still flowing. Watching your face contort in pain, oh, it killed me, knowing you hurt, but it was still beautiful, still a gift, because it was proof that you could still feel, and if you’re feeling, you’re still alive, alive, alive, alive, my Dean is alive. But even then, with my eyes on your body, my ears filled with the sounds of your mindless cursing, grunts and groans, it wasn’t enough, not really. I still needed to feel it, to feel you, and I took the most surefire action that came to mind, letting my arms drop to the side so I wouldn’t fling them up around you and hold you close. With my hands at my sides and my eyes focusing in on the slow trickle of crimson over your freckled nose and down your stubbly chin, I breathed out the words like a broken man’s cry to the heavens in the last moments before death—_

_“Oh, God, kiss me,” I breathed, and you did._

_You kissed me. You kissed me and it tasted like salt, like leather, like metal and blood, that tangy, bittersweet flavor, the taste of Dean, and it was real, and it was you, and I wouldn’t have it any other way—no, I love my Dean just the way he is, wounded and fierce as he thrusts his tongue into my starved mouth, even as he’s bleeding out, and if  I ever admitted that aloud, he’d gag over just how chick-flick that sounds, gory details excluded._

 

xxxx

 

 

“Sam? Sammy? Fuckin’ hell, where in God’s name is your mind tonight?” His voice is muffled by Sam’s shoulder, and Sam snaps up abruptly, shaking his matted hair out of his eyes as he disentangles himself from Dean, and retrieves the antiseptic he’d hastily placed on the floor, and pours it onto a fresh cloth.

 

“Sorry,” comes the hushed whisper, and he presses his lips lightly to Dean’s shoulder as he dabs away at the open cuts and scratches, while the man’s face scrunches up with bottled agony and frustration alike, his only release the occasional hiss. Sam bites down hard on his own chapped lower lip, determined to ignore the quite literal chill that takes a hold of him as Dean’s eyes squeeze shut, his plump lips part, and a gasp falls past them as his entire body shudders from the anguish and blood loss combined. _Beautiful_ , Sam thinks, until he realizes the implications of the word, and he chews on his own lip again, forcing the thoughts away. _There shouldn’t be anything beautiful about seeing you like this. There shouldn’t be, that’s wrong—but then, everything I am and do is wrong, so what does it matter?_ The words fly like so many whispers in the howling winds of his mind, and he brushes them away as he binds Dean’s muscled arm tightly to stanch the flow, neatly and efficiently, just as he does everything else.

 

“How the hell is it I get my ass beaten bloody, and you haven’t got a damn scratch, bro?” Dean laughs weakly, and Sam shrugs awkwardly, having enough difficulty processing words as he gropes about the kit for the needle, his mouth curled into a disgruntled frown as his fingers trail down the marred skin of his lover’s chest to the gash between his ribs. The sight should bring bile to his mouth but it doesn’t, not in the least, and he pauses, leaning down again for yet another all-too-tender kiss, the kind Dean despised and Sam loved, he took it now, when Dean was in no condition to object. “Sammy,” came the hoarse whisper, and if he were stronger, it would have been full of objection, irritation, but right now it was all he could do to hang onto consciousness, and he’d have to wait to put up a fight. “Sam. Sammy. Sammy,” Dean intoned, the name rolling off his tongue like sweet wine, and he swallows as Sam lightly presses their foreheads together, gripping the needle adeptly between his fingers.

 

“Shh, Dean,” he hushed as he drew it through the skin and Dean groaned, the eyes rolling back in his head, sliding in and out of focus as the wound was sewn shut, and in the end he was hardly aware of Sam finishing the job and putting the rest of the materials away. As the jade eyes found the hazel, Dean blinked in surprise and blinked confusedly. “Are you smiling? The hell you smilin’ about? Y’know, sometimes I think you like this too much, Sammy.”

 

Sam doesn’t reply for a moment, turning away instead to rip off his own shirt to clean and dress the small cut below his collarbone, realizing too late to matter that it was deeper than he’d thought. “I don’t like it, Dean. In fact, I’d be a lot happier if you’d stop getting your side torn open, alright? Now stop talking before you pass out, ‘cause I don’t particularly wanna leave you looking like the undead on the bed when I go to get the food.”

 

“Ugh, just call in for pizza, don’t go anywhere. But seriously, Sammy—ow! Fuck,” he grunted, shifting as he tried to put his weight on his feet, only to fall back into Sam’s waiting arms.

“Bad idea, genius. Quit fucking around, you’re going to pop a stitch,” Sam scolded, sliding an arm under Dean’s to lift him to his feet carefully. “That’s it. And seriously, Dean,” he murmured, as he lowered him down onto the bed, “The only reason I could ever _like_ you getting hurt is because of this.”

 

“Because of what?” Dean questioned confusedly, rubbing his eyes and cringing as he brushed his side against the bedpost.

 

“Because, I can feel like a good brother when I can fix you up in under four minutes, barely any blood or mess, and—” Sam’s words were cut short as his fingers lightly grazed the already darkening bruise just between his shoulder blades, drawing out of Dean a husky, strained moan, the kind that reverberates from deep within, and echoes in the mind. “And I love the sounds that I can get out of you,” Sam growls, and without a care for pain or purity, he swung himself onto the bed as well, his legs on either side of Dean as he propped himself up on his hands, looming over his brother with a glint of the devil in his eyes.

 

 

xxxx

 

 

_Oh, yes, it used to be the fear. The fear of losing you, and that desperate, aching need to taste the life within you just moments after the terror of you being torn from me—yes, it was the fear, long ago, but that’s just it, it was so long ago. But now that the initial shock has worn off, the end of a hunt is just a part of life, I still feel the same way, and I cannot blame fear, because in my heart of hearts, I know there’s no injury or affliction that you’ll acquire that I can’t fix or cure, because dammit, I’m your Sammy. The feel of your body, warm and musky in my arms, and the knowledge that I can tend to you, heal you, make you whole again, that’s the reason why, sometimes, these days. Sometimes I fear that it’s a power thing, the ability to possess the upper hand with you, for just once in my life—to have you weak, pathetic, needy, it sounds repulsive, but to me it’s beautiful, knowing that you trust me enough to place your wellbeing in my hands, knowing that you believe in my ability to fix you when you’re at your worst._

_It wasn’t like that, not in the beginning, when I took you to the faith healer. “I’m gonna die, Sammy, and there’s nothing you can do about it!” Oh, I told you to just watch me, and I got you fixed in the end, didn’t I? I healed you, I snatched you from the reaper himself, and then you knew that when I said it, I meant it—love, I’ll never let you down, I’ll forever keep you safe and alive. I will forever be the one to make you whole again, when you’re beaten down and beaten up, I’ll be the one to put my hands on you and seal your wounds forever. You can do your damned hardest to be my protector in the daylight, to play the protective, older brother, the shield from harm’s way, but when the chase is over, the game is won, and you’re falling apart—then, you’re mine again. Mine to caress, to mend, to nurse and care for, the one in charge. The way you writhe, when I’m cleaning off the blood, the way it stings when I pour on the peroxide, and you clench your jaw to keep from letting out another moan—oh, those moments are almost better than the moans, the way your eyes scrunch shut and your pretty lips purse, like if you clamp down hard enough on your own tongue, you won’t let out the noise that lets me know just how it feels. Oh, but don’t you know that I already know, that I can read it in the way your muscles go taut beneath my fingers when I hold the ice to your back, the curve of your lats beneath my broad palm, and the soft whisper of my name escaping from your mouth despite your better judgment? Not that better judgment has ever been one of your strong suits. No, if you were one for better judgment, I wouldn’t be allowed to do what I’m about to do to you. But no, patience, caution, reason—none of that matters to you, not when it comes to this, and so you’re mine tonight—mine to taste, mine to feel, mine to fix and claim alike._

 

xxxx

 

 

“Sammy.” The voice is guttural and uncouth, the croaking sound barely audible over the screeching winds beyond the motel walls, and it’s a sound so erotic it’s practically obscene, and it’s all that’s needed to dissipate the last hesitation, the last boundary between Sam and the beautiful catastrophe beneath him. He brings his lips down, pressing them deceivingly gently against the marred skin, like honeyed words of harsh reality spoken in the light of day, and Dean shudders, truly trembles at the touch, the touch that’s both a warning and an invitation to the world that only Sammy could offer. “Sammy, I can’t, this—oh, oh _Jesus!_ ” The lips drag downwards, beginning at the top of Dean’s jaw and moving steadily downward, trailing along the rough, stubbly skin, as the larger man lowers his body down lightly, his hips positioned directly over Dean’s own, and even through two layers of denim, Dean can feel it, hard as the steel of his favorite knife, and even longer than the blade of it. Dean visibly flinches from the intensity of Sam’s gaze, the gold flecks in his own eyes seeming all the brighter in the dim light, and his long lashes flutter as Sam brings his face down, pressing his cheek against Dean’s even as his long fingers crawl up the bare flesh of his lover’s back, slowly making their way to the base of Dean’s neck. “Sammy?”

 

The steady movement of Sam’s finger’s continue even as he answers, bringing his scabbed-over lips to Dean’s ear, where he nips at the cartilage and causes him to twitch. “Yes, Dean?” The tone is impatient, and by God rightfully so as his hips start to move, rolling and grinding the lower halves of their bodies together, the friction from the jeans only serving to add to the obvious arousal beneath.

 

“Would you? Would you, if I told you not to?” A pause in the movement, and a hitch in breath, Sam’s sharp fingernails digging into the soft flesh where neck meets shoulder, leaving a scratch that wasn’t there before, another mark amongst a sea of barely-there scars.

 

Sam bites down on the lobe of Dean’s ear, snapping his teeth in the air just before he does so, nibbling at it in annoyance at the insignificance of such a remark. “You would never tell me not to. Never.” And he wouldn’t, no, Dean was his, all lean muscle, salty sweat, metallic blood in a sliver of line, forming where nails had met skin, and Dean knows better than to comment, and Sam knows better than to acknowledge it with words, and instead, he brings his head down, nuzzling his neck while his tongue darts out, the savory taste of bittersweet blood no stranger to his lips, and he laps it up like a luxurious, crimson liquor, exquisite and sinful. His hands slither downwards to grip angular hips, fingers curling back to run over squeezable, smackable, spankable ass, and Dean shivers, Dean groans, Dean moans, as silver buttons go unhooked, a zipper is yanked down, and cotton and denim slide off as lips move downwards, dragging along his torso as the jeans and boxers fall to the floor to be forgotten. With fingers curled around certain hardness, Sam lets out a vindictive chuckle, dark eyes meeting the glassy green as he licks a lingering drop of Dean’s blood off his lower lip. “You just tell me no, Dean. You just tell me no.”

 

Dean swallows. Dean gasps. Dean twists, and his arms fly out to the sides, only to be caught in Sam’s firm grip, snatching both wrists in a single, broad hand and pinning them above his brother’s head, while the other hand pumps Dean’s shaft, his thumb running along the rim of the crown of his cock, and a single word is uttered as his hips jerk upwards into Sam’s hand—“ _Yes_.”

 

 

xxxx

 

 

_I can no longer blame the fear, nor my penchant—no, obsession—for fixing the broken, mending the wounded and damaged. And since I cannot, I turn my blame on the demon blood. Pathetic excuse, but a valid one, perhaps, and if not, it’s still easier to blame it, than to examine the darkness within me, the darkness that is no part of Ruby or Azazel, and the liquid in their veins. I like to blame it for this hunger, this avarice, this unadulterated, wanton lust for power, for control over you. Somewhere along the way, the line begins to blur, the line between fixing you to make you better, and fixing you simply because I have the ability. In so many ways, I love the way you hurt the same way I love the feel of Ruby’s scarlet essence slipping past my lips, sliding down my throat, oh!—the way it burns, as I feel it flooding through me, you’ve never felt a damn thing like it, like agony and ecstasy, infused in the drink of hell. It’s the same way I’ll drink you in, love, the same enthusiasm with which I’ll suck down your cum, licking away every last drop, savoring it to the last possible moment, but that isn’t what I mean, when I say I feel the same. What’s the same is the feeling of power, of presence, of meaning, when the blood makes its way through my system, and when my fingers twist your nipples while I claim you from within._

_I like to blame the demon blood, and the things it does to my mind, when I’ve just swallowed it down, and if I can’t use that excuse, I hold withdrawal culpable for it. Either way, it must be that, for no pure human could take such delight in exercising such authority simply for the satisfaction that comes with supremacy. In a fight, stone cold sober, uninjured, pure, I honestly don’t know who would win, me or you, if it weren’t for my poison, my remedy. But in the end, the answer doesn’t matter, for even now with my lips on yours, with my hand on you, I can hear our pulses racing, our rapid breathing, yours shallow, mine heavy, both of us fully alive, even you, in your wounded state. I can feel the blood pumping within, beneath my fingers, through the veins that lead to your sex, and God!—I have never felt something so positively magical in my life, other than this. I like to blame the blood, for this Schadenfreude that consumes me, when I see you weak, broken, aching beneath me, unable to do a damn thing to stop me, even if you wanted to._

_What’s even better than that is the fact that you don’t. You don’t want to tell me no, you never want to tell me no, because what could be a greater crime than denying your Sammy? It’s sick, the way I abuse that now, when just a year ago I would have died before I even had such a thought, such a truly distorted, demented idea, to misuse, to twist, to contort your adoration into something so vile, so disgusting, and yet somehow, I can’t bring myself to give a damn. Somehow now, in this crass motel room, the only thing that matters is that you’re here, you’re wounded, you’re scarred, you, Dean, are a broken man, risen from hell for God’s bidding, and you live, essentially, to serve me. A better man would lay you down to rest, a better man would kiss your lips lightly and send you into the abyss of peaceful sleep, but I’m damned, and I refuse to throw such a beautiful opportunity to the wastelands to rot into non-existence. Am I taking advantage of you? By all means, yes. Do I feel guilt? Never, not a bit. Does it feel damn fine? You can swear on our sweet mother’s useless grave, it feels perfect. Because you’re mine, and that, Dean, is the only reason I will ever need._

 

xxxx

 

 

“ _Yes._ ” Dean’s single word, uttered in the midst of building passion, sends Sam careening into that higher state of mind already, that all-encompassing feeling of sheer power, domination, control over the man beneath him, wrists twisting in his grasp, desperately trying to break free, not to push him away, but to touch him, but no, he won’t allow it.

 

“ _Struggle_ , Dean.” It was a command, cold and fierce, and not without threat, as Sam tightened his grip around Dean’s pulsing cock, the severity in his gaze matching the brutality of the increased force as he dug his nails into the skin of Dean’s wrists, still pinned above his head by Sam’s own large and unrelenting hand. When Dean just moans, moans like the little whore Sam wants him to be, he halts the steady pumping of the smaller man’s length, and brings the hand up to clutch his shoulder, bringing his face down so that his lips graze a white, cotton bandage binding dean’s bicep. “I said, I want you to fucking fight me, you pretty little soldier. What the hell kind of hunter are you, Dean, if you can’t push me away?”

 

Silence, and then a groan. “Sammy, don’t do this, not now. Please, just—” Dean wriggles his wrist again, frantically trying to force Sam’s hand back down to where it belongs, fisting his needy dick, but his brother just laughs.

 

“What’s the matter, beautiful, don’t you want control? Since when did you, Dean, just hand it over to me? There’s no fucking fun if you just lay there, don’t you know? Oh, you know,” Sam croons, his tongue slipping out to wet his parched, chapped lips as he lets his eyes devour the visual feast before him: Dean’s pale face starved, his expression pleading and pathetically weak from strain, pain, and blood loss, and his body, oh his body, laid out naked and exposed and marred in the most beauteous of ways, and it’s all for Sam, sweet, cruel Sammy. Dean shivers, his green eyes lighter than their usual shade as he turns his head to kiss Sam hard on the mouth, the sudden movement expected, and Sam thrusts his tongue into the hot, damp cavern, warring for dominance of the kiss as Dean finds some energy within him to play, their tongues interlocked in a concupiscent battle. “That’s more like it,” Sam breathes as he finally breaks away, his hand snaking back down along Dean’s side, careful to avoid the freshly-stitched raw flesh and instead creeping back up around to a frozen perky nipple, tauntingly erect. He takes it between his thumb and forefinger as his lips meet the delectable skin of Dean’s neck, drawing a soft, hushed sound from the man.

 

“S-Sa-Sammy,” he stammers, bucking his hips upwards to grind up against the jeans Sam still wore, desperate and famished for attention and release. Sam says nothing, having spoken more than he’d typically desire to already, and he tunes out the sounds Dean simply didn’t have the energy to restrict tonight. Instead, he focuses in on the distinct way Dean’s lips part, as he throws back his head when Sam begins to twist his hardened nipple as his tongue sweeps out along the sensitive section of skin at the nape of Dean’s neck, his teeth grazing the flesh just barely but enough. His own erection fights hard against the restraining denim as Dean swivels his hips beneath him, surely causing himself a burn along his length given the pace at which he was trying to rub himself off on his brother’s thigh. Finally giving in, Sam releases Dean’s sore wrists to continue his toying with Dean’s nipples while unbuttoning his jeans, hastily pulling down his zipper with minimal caution, kicking his jeans aside and breathing in relief as his thick cock was freed from a most frustrating cage. With only the thin, soft cotton of his black briefs between them, Sam himself gasped, throwing his arms around Dean’s neck as his lips met his brother’s once more in a wet, slobbery, messy kiss, the head of his own long cock peeking out over the fabric and rubbing against Dean’s defined abdominals.

 

“That’s it, my pretty soldier,” comes Sam’s forceful voice for the first time that night with true satisfaction in it as Dean found the strength to wrap his legs around Sam’s waist, yanking him downwards and sealing the last inches of air between them, crushing his own body with the broad, stalwart man above him. His hands, though free, had remained above his head until now, when he sought in frustration a quicker route to release, and his delicate fingers ran over the expanse of Sam’s heavily muscled back, his touch titillating and ticklish until he reached the ungodly curve of his ass, thin cotton stretched over obscenely perfect buttocks. Somewhere in the depths of Dean’s mind an image flashed before him— Sam, spread eagle on his back and looking up adoringly at Dean’s grinning face, his legs held wide open and his fingers beckoning Dean downwards, only the barest remnant of a mischievous glint in Sam’s wide, puppy dog eyes, more innocent than anything else, and then—and then the image was gone, replaced by the reality of Sam’s thin lips pursed tightly as he glowered at Dean, the hazel eyes full of rapaciousness, of wrathful lust, even a sick sense of pride as he scraped his nails down Dean’s torso, around the bound wounds and over the minor bruising. _Oh, God in heaven, when in hell did all this change?_

 

As if hearing Dean’s thoughts, Sam laughed heartlessly as he flicked his tongue over a dried spot of blood lingering on Dean’s chin, then brought his mouth downwards with a long lick from neck to nipple, enveloping the object of his previous toying with his mouth. Sucking hard, he snatched Dean’s hands in his own, repositioning them over his own hips and signaling for Dean to slide off the last remaining article of clothing. Tucking his thumbs into the waistband, he quickly did as instructed, tossing them behind the bed carelessly as the object of his darkest fantasies was let free, truly free at last, and Dean instinctively spread his legs, awaiting the end.

 

Yet somehow, Sam himself had all the patience in the world or so it seemed, because he made no move towards the lube lying on the nightstand—no, Sam was still using that wicked tongue of his, sliding it downward, downwards, oh—and Sam’s hands have found the insides of Dean’s thighs, gripping them loosely, but firm enough, as he pushes them apart and curls his head down, that tongue still dragging on all along the way, dipping into Dean’s navel and trailing down the soft line of dark blonde hairs that transform into small curls around his erection. Sam slips his strong arms beneath Dean’s legs, propping them up on his own expansive shoulders as he leans down, bringing his lips to the tip of Dean’s now leaking cock. Swirling his tongue in slow, steady motions around the crown, he laps up the precome, savoring the tangy, salty liquid, triggering the dirtiest, most salacious of moans from his lover, his fingers repeatedly running along Dean’s hips and waist, moving in small circles along the smooth skin. As Sam dragged his tongue down along the side of his brother’s shaft, Dean’s hands flung themselves forward, knotting his fingers in Sam’s currently filthy brown locks and pushing weakly on the back of his head—a mistake. Sam immediately withdrew his tongue snatched Dean by the forearms, and held them down against the bed, snarling as he did so.

 

"Don’t you dare, Dean _._ Don’t you fucking _dare._ I’m going to take my sweet time, and you’re gonna fuckin’ love it,” he hissed, and without another warning, keeping Dean’s hands, now balled into tight fists, pinned against the sheets, he brought his mouth down again, bypassing his cock entirely, and instead, in a slow, sweeping motion, slid his tongue along his perineum. As his tongue came to a halt just above Dean’s entrance, the man shuddered, a vulgar noise resounding in the motel room.

 

“Please. _Please,_ ” gasped Dean, his hips bucking upwards, clear off the bed as the tongue dances in circular motions around the hole, a fiendish and pitiless act given that Sam knew exactly what he was doing, slithering his tongue outside the entrance, never quite close enough, but never drifting far off, either.

 

“Beg. Fucking beg for it, Dean, tell me how much you want me, how much you need me,” Sam growls with his face buried between his lover’s thighs, his cheek pressed against the sensitive spot where thigh meets groin. _Tell me you need me. Tell me you still need me, still want me, even after all this deception, I need to hear it, again and again, that this love is unconditional._ The cry that escapes Dean’s lips is raw and hoarse, and the fingers knotted in Sam’s hair clench and pull frantically and without purpose, and Sam’s tongue waits in position, the tip of it resting on his pucker.

 

“Sam—Sammy—love you, Sammy, need, need you! Sammy, please, fuck, please, oh please just fuck me!” he exclaims, his eyes squeezed shut as he turns his head and gasps into the pillow, muffling the sound as best as he can without removing his hands from Sam. It’s enough pleading finally, and Sam’s the corners of Sam’s lips twist into a smile as he presses his face down.

 

His lips part slightly, enough for Sam to mouth the area around his entrance wet and slick, and not a second later, with his hands on Dean’s hipbones, he forces his tongue in, a quarter of an inch, half an inch—oh, god, two inches in, and it’s all in one slow movement, and Sam’s tongue is flicking inside, slicking Dean’s hole with spit as his hands begin to creep down towards Dean’s erection, red and aching and even harder than just a moment before, due to the fluid and decisive movements of Sam’s tongue inside him. Sam’s own cock grates against the side of the bed, and Dean can’t remember when Sam had climbed off the bed and onto his knees, because he’s still plenty tall, and Dean’s legs wrap tightly around his brother’s neck, still propped up on his muscled shoulders. As the tongue within him drives ever deeper, Sam can feel the man’s body writhing beneath his fingers, and as he wraps his fingers around the base of Dean’s shaft, the man’s back arches, rising off the bed for half a minute as his toes curl, his mouth hangs open, and moans fly out, moans of the most licentious quality, and when the fingers begin to pump his cock he falls back onto the bed, tossing his head to the side once more, letting out half a scream into the pillow beside him.

 

It isn’t two minutes past before Dean’s coming, his fingers tearing at Sam’s hair, his body trembling as he shoots out in short spurts over his chest and Sam’s hand, his muscles clenching around Sam’s tongue, even as it continues its play, and as the last of the cries fill Sam’s ears, he releases the cock and shoves a single finger in with his tongue, no warning, and no lubricant save the fresh cum it had just been coated in.

 

“Fuck! _Fuck, God_!” Two fingers, three, all slick with cream and not a damned thing else, crammed inside Dean’s wet hole, and Sam, pressing his mouth to Dean’s navel, lapping up the remaining cum as quickly as he can, not a care for neatness in his actions, as a droplet of semen drips down his chin.

 

“Not God, just your Sammy, remember? Your Sammy, who needs his Dean, so badly,” breathes Sam, his voice hardly a whisper as he removes Dean’s legs from his shoulders and climbs back onto the bed, pulling out his fingers as he gently lowers himself onto Dean, caressing his face lightly as he crushes their lips together, running his soiled fingers through Dean’s hair. The tenderness is thoroughly unexpected juxtaposed against the force he’d been using just a moment ago, and Dean knows more than anyone else that he’ll be just that much rougher, and sure enough, Sam’s reaching over his shoulder for the lube on the nightstand, kissing Dean wetly with fervor as he squirts the cold gel out into the palm of his hand, slicking his huge length with it as he gives his brother’s ass a tight squeeze, loving the feel of that firm, tight bare flesh in his palm, and loving even more the knowledge that it was his, his to love, his to claim, his to squeeze and smack and spank, and for the briefest moment, he couldn't find a damned regret in his mind. With the head of his cock rubbing against Dean’s hole, Sam pressed his lips to Dean’s forehead, and placed his hands on either side of his face.

 

“I love you, Dean,” came the words, hushed and broken, as Sam thrust in with ardor, and claimed his lover in a single stroke.

 

xxxx

 

 

  _It’s true. I say the words so rarely, and you say them even less, but that’s the beauty of it all—we never need to. Yes, I begged for that kiss out of fear. I thrived on my ability to mend you, to fix you, to feel like I could finally do something that actually mattered in the grand scheme of things, for you, love. And with the blood of hell in my mouth, my veins, I claim you for my own, and yes, it is, in fact, simply because I can, and you couldn’t, wouldn’t stop me from it, even if you wanted me gone.  But in the end, none of those reasons matter, none of it does. In the end, with Death staring us down from every direction, every damned minute of our damned lives, the only reason I need, Dean, is love, and I have it. I have your love, and you have mine, even if you’ve come to doubt it in the recent days, and even for that I cannot blame you. My lies, oh, they consume like wildfire in a dry heat, they devour, like sharks in bloody water, they weigh you down, weigh me down, two lovers anchored to hell, and no matter how we try to fight it, I know somehow, in the end, one of us, or both of us, is going down. And the only weapon, the only shield I have against that knowledge is this, our love. Let it consume us instead, let us devour each other, let us cling like it’s our last moment, because we already live like it’s our last day. I love you, Dean Winchester, all of me loves you, the devil in me, the boy in me, the man, in me, your Sammy. And that will never change._

 

xxxx

 

 

Dean’s whole body curls in on itself, his ankles crossing as his legs lock around Sam’s lower back, his arms flinging around Sam’s neck and pulling him down, keeping him close, forcing their lips to meet in a rushed, rough kiss, as the stubble on his face burns against Sam’s smooth cheek, and it’s perfect, god, it’s perfect as Dean gasps, and his eyes roll back in his head when the last inch of Sam’s cock is buried inside him, encased in Dean’s damp heat. Sam pounds harshly, his teeth snap ravenously, and the rapacious expression contorting his face as he begins to pull out, only to plunge back in again is so deliciously carnal, Dean’s eyes stay wide open, attempting to memorize the sight for the rest of his life. Dean knows now, even as Sam fucks him violently, dangerously, even, that when he someday finds himself alone and famished for attention, he’ll fall back on the mattress, one hand wrapped around his cock and his own fingers stuffed in his ass as he re-imagines this exact scene, Sam, towering over him, Sam, pounding into him, Sam, coming undone in the most bestial of ways, as he ravishes Dean in only the way Sammy, Dean’s Sammy, had ever been able to do. When Sam climaxes, he clamps his teeth down hard on Dean’s uninjured shoulder to silence the scream within, his hands grasping wildly at the corners of the mattress as he spills into Dean, and Dean shivers and comes a second time from the sheer friction of his cock rubbing up against Sam’s stomach as he thrust into Dean, his cock striking Dean’s prostate every damn time.

 

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, and Sam slowly pulls out, rolling over onto the side of the bed, and carefully avoiding the most painful of Dean’s injuries as he places his head on Dean’s chest, and slings an arm over Dean’s waist. Dean can feel the cum leaking out of his ass onto the sheets, and he doesn’t give a damn, ‘cause right now, he can feel Sam’s body shaking, he can feel the wetness in Sam’s eyes as he nuzzles his older brother’s chest, and he knows, by God he knows, and Sam has nothing to say, but Dean’s name, over and over again, like a mantra in a time of dire need. “Shh, Sammy. I’ll keep you safe.”

 

xxxx

 

 

_You keep me safe. You have, since before I could crawl, or walk, or speak, and you always will, until the very end. Even when you were dead, your presence loomed over me and the knowledge of what you would have done ruled my life, and I desperately clung to my every memory of you._

_I know you know. You don’t know what you know, but you know that something’s wrong, horribly wrong inside of me, that I’m hiding something I can tell no one, not even you, especially not you, but you don’t care, because in the end, I’m your only reason, and you love me just the same. I fear, in the end, I’ll find your love was never unconditional, and that if you knew right here, right now, you’d shove me away, abandon me for good, and I’d have nothing worth living for, not anymore. But you don’t know what you know, and that’s all I need to know, to keep myself here, where I can pretend to be safe from what I fear most—myself._

_I don’t need another hit, not now, the sex was enough to keep the blood lust at bay, and the stores are running low anyway—where is that demonic bitch when you need her? But do I need her, or do I just need you? The line begins to blur, Dean, and I’m scared out of my mind, that you’re not the only reason I need, anymore, that I need more than you, that I actually, truly, wholly need it to go on. I pray to a God you don’t really believe in that it isn’t true, it isn’t the case, that I am strong enough without it—but it’s a lie, and I know it._

_But I don’t have to acknowledge that truth, I don’t have to face it, not when I’ve got you, Dean, you to trust, you to lean on, you to hide behind, you to kiss, you to hold me when I’m scared, you to fix up, when I need to feel useful, when I need a purpose—I have you to control, to abuse when the darker side gets the better of me. And you never go, you never leave, and I hope with every inch of my soul and body that you won’t ever forsake me, Dean, my Dean, my Dean whom I love._

_I love you Dean. I love the taste of you, the taste of salt, of leather, of metal and blood, that tangy, bittersweet flavor, the one I’ve loved for as long as I can remember. I love the feel of you, Dean, the feel of rough stubble, the feel of soft, fuzzy hair, the feel of lean, well toned muscle, beneath smooth skin. I love the warmth that you provide, the strength that you provide, the security, the love, the reason you provide, without fail, every time._

_I love you, Dean._

_And I hope to God you don’t ever forget it._


End file.
